


Finding the Language of Forgiveness

by SharpestScalpel



Series: Tidy Like A Vulcan [2]
Category: Star Trek (2009), Star Trek (AOS)
Genre: M/M, Mild D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-15
Updated: 2010-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:26:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestScalpel/pseuds/SharpestScalpel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock needs to make amends but McCoy isn't a man for flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding the Language of Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> I am determined to finish this damn bingo line but the fics keep getting long. SHUT UP, MCCOY. *laugh*

"You pointy-earred –" McCoy cut the words off at a side-eye from Spock. Plenty of bastards thought they knew the Vulcan, thought he was cold and unfeeling. They obviously had never bothered to look in his damn eyes, especially when McCoy was pushing the boundaries between them like it was his full-time job.

They were standing close enough to whisper and Jim wasn't paying attention anyway. "I'm just saying, that's an underhanded damn trick. It's illogical."

Spock's eyebrow was louder than McCoy's hissing (at least McCoy thought so but he didn't get a say in things, apparently, and wasn't that just the way things always went) – but more subtle. A few of the other guests sniffed their disapproval (as though McCoy cared what a bunch of simpering goddamn dignitaries thought of him) and drifted away, but the looks were all directed at McCoy. None for Spock, for all he had started the... McCoy hesitated to call it a fight.

They hadn't fought at all, no serious disagreements beyond their usual manners – and even that felt more like foreplay these days – since the night McCoy had barged into Spock's quarters in pursuit of what they both wanted. Spock had been waiting – the door had been open; there had been remarkably little barging for all McCoy characterized it that way.

McCoy had more practice with the bond now, too. And he could feel the upset rolling off of Spock in waves, even though they were reluctant, like a tide going out instead of coming back in.

"You're the one who told me to damn well dance with the woman. Now you're going to run up on me all jealous like I did something wrong? You set me up for it, Spock." Jocelyn had done the same damn thing, playing a game to make McCoy realize something, that she was still desireable or that she could still replace him or, hell, he didn't even know, to test McCoy to see if he'd show the proper possessiveness. He never had managed it to her satisfaction, though he'd gotten plenty for himself, punching that weasal Clay in the face at his third cousin's second wedding. "Why're you playing with me like that?"

The fingers that found his own were a surprise if nothing else. Spock was hesitant about affection, hell, about physical contact in public, now more than ever. They were hidden pretty effectively, though, by a large column in the assembly room and no one, McCoy thought, would see the hidden caress.

Caress or, he considered, maybe it was more about comfort. Spock was calming down now that they were touching, even in such a small way (damn touch telepaths), the emotion being broadcast fading as Spock got himself back under control. It worked, or seemed to, in the other direction, too. McCoy was calmer, his own anger fading though he remained baffled and... hell, he was hurt. He hadn't expected this from Spock of all people.

  
They hadn't even put a name to this thing between them – though McCoy had a suspicion, had been researching in his spare time. The Vulcans were tighter lipped than damn Terran clams but everything he could find pointed to them being Vulcan married. But there was Spock, pawning him off on human women for a fancy dance at a fancy Star Fleet party...

"I apologize, Leonard. I did not accurately predict my... response." Spock's voice was soft, meant only for McCoy's ears. And his eyes were that melty brown vulnerable color they got to be when Spock was thinking he deserved to be castigated, when Spock was thinking he'd failed the entire Vulcan species and had crossed some imaginary emotional line.

Aw, hell.

"Baby, it's okay." The endearments had slipped out of his mouth without McCoy's permission one night, when Spock was worshiping McCoy's very human cock. McCoy had returned the favor with pleasure and Spock had called him something – McCoy was no linguist and Spock hadn't said the word again. But McCoy figured if he kept up the habit, he might tease another love word out of the stoic Vulcan. "It's... I'm not interested in dancing with them."

He'd have danced with Spock but McCoy had never actually _seen_ Spock dance. As an ambassador's son, he probably could. It was only logical. But McCoy wasn't quite ready to risk getting turned down on that score. As it was, he should have expected the negative headshake, slight as it was, in return to his dismissal. Spock wouldn't put it off so easily now that he had (logically) found himself to be in the wrong.

Goddamn stubborn green-blooded Vulcan.

McCoy sighed. "Come on with me, darling."

It was surprisingly easy to lead his self-castigating... whatever Spock was out of the ballroom. McCoy scanned up and down the hall – empty but there were plenty of doors. One of which... yes. Open.

"Praise be for storage closets." McCoy pulled Spock in after him and closed the door, locked it securely before turning to crowd close to Spock.

"Leonard, I have offered my apologies. I am uncertain as to your purpose here." Spock still wouldn' t meet his eyes, was making the closest thing the man had to a shame-faced grimace.

Hell. Now that he'd calmed down a bit, it was clear what had happened. McCoy shook his head. "You're encouraging me to make nice with the brass, I get that. And you didn't expect to be so..." McCoy chose his words carefully. "You didn't expect it to put you in an emotionally compromising position." He wormed his way up against Spock's stiff body, pushed until Spock was braced with his back against the wall. The Vulcan was stronger, could escape if he wanted to use force. But McCoy was betting Spock would rather stay where he was than hurt the human.

"That is an accurate assessment of the situation. I believed, through our interactions on the ship, that it would be acceptable to view you so closely engaged with another with no negative side effects."

Translation: Spock figured since he didn't mind when McCoy and Jim were drunk and cozy – Jim was a handsy damn asshole sometimes – it wouldn' t bug him a bit to see McCoy slow dance with some gussied up Earth woman. Jealousy, plain and old-fashioned. Spock was awful bad at juggling it, too. Probably came from having no experience with it.

That was... kind of sweet, actually. Entirely dysfunctional and they'd have to work on that, humans being humans and all, but still. McCoy wasn't entirely immune to the warm feeling that blossomed in his chest to think that Spock thought highly enough of him to feel insecure.

 _Damn convoluted, Leonard_ – the thought must have made it through to Spock because the Vulcan tilted his head in curiosity. McCoy pressed a quick kiss to the quizzical mouth. Curiosity was better than guilt, any damn day.

"Don't want you to worry I'm out to do something improper, Spock. But it's nice to know I mean something to you." McCoy felt his face heat up. They didn't... It wasn't their way to talk about this.

Spock blinked. "Leonard, have I not made your importance to me evident?"

McCoy let his eyes wander around the room instead of meeting Spock's gaze. There were mops leaning up against the wall in the corner. And shelves full of cleaning supplies. Not... not the most suitable setting for this kind of conversation. It was actually kind of a depressing locale. And McCoy was just superstitious enough to think it probably wasn't a good sign that they were finally looking at talking about... well, any of it, in a damn janitor's closet.

"Listen, Spock," his voice was tentative, out of character for the confident doctor, "why don't we talk about this when we get back home?" Their quarters – they went back and forth between them – the Enterprise, that was home now.

The negative shake of Spock's head, though, that boded worse for their discussion than all the damn toilet cleaners around them.

"It is unnecessary. I have erred, and shall correct myself." Spock finally moved, pushed against his lover with light force, a suggestion that McCoy move, let Spock go.

"If you mean _hide away and meditate on how you're a failure to the Vulcan race_ , I'd like to lodge a damn objection." McCoy stood his ground, captured Spock's hands in his own. "Darlin', you didn't do anything wrong. We just need to talk about a few things."

His whole family – especially Jocelyn and Joanna included – would be dying where they stood if they could hear him now. _We need to talk_ were some of McCoy's least favorite words and here he was deploying them. McCoy chuckled at his own folly. No way to avoid it forever, he supposed.

Spock's stoic silence was enough to make his own opinion clear, even if the mental thread connecting them wasn't vibrating clear as a bell with Spock's unhappiness. But Spock stilled, left his hands in McCoy's light grip.

Easiest – well, the most efficient, at least – way to go about it would be to just come straight about with it. "I have a few ideas about where we stand. But I don't know your details and I haven't felt any need to push. I'm not in a hurry; I figured we'd work it out as we went along." McCoy accompanied his words with a gentle rubbing of his thumbs across the back of Spock's hands. Soothing.

And – interesting – arousing, if the slight flare of Spock's nostrils was any sign. But McCoy only had a moment to contemplate it before Spock was, with the gentleness that characterized his self-control, moving McCoy out of his way, putting distance between them. Distance that the doctor didn't really want but, well, Spock wasn't asking his opinion, now was he?

"I shall endeavor to relate to you with greater clarity, Leonard. And to make amends."

That was interesting, too, and frustrating as hell because Spock was working the lock on the door and holding it open with a look back at McCoy – a look that clearly said something along the lines of _Why are you passing the time in a storage closet, Leonard?_

Goddammit.

***

Goddammit. McCoy slammed the PADD, innocent though it was, back onto his desk. He checked the chrono – three minutes later than the last time he'd checked. Then he glared, as he had every time he'd looked up to check the time, at the flowers in a glass vase he'd never seen before in either of their quarters, dammit, sitting in the middle of his workspace for all the universe like they damn well belonged there.

Flowers. Spock had brought him flowers.

Part of his brain acknowledged, with the same deft analysis that kicked in automatically when a situation called for triage, that McCoy was overreacting and being more ridiculous than he had previously been at any other point in his life. That part of his brain reminded McCoy he had a spiteful streak that caused him to make his own life harder out of sheer cussedness and that flowers were a concilliatory gesture with a tradition that stretched back for centuries.

But it had been a week since that damn dinner and McCoy had hardly seen Spock – had instead been treated to apologetic gesture after apologetic gesture when really all he wanted was for Spock to stop it with the melty naked eyes (McCoy was a total sucker for those eyes and it was pissing him off) so they could get back to what passed for normal between them. Well, he really wanted to have sex again, too, but he'd put that aside for the sake of...

For the sake of something. McCoy wasn't sure, he just missed sharing a bed with the Vulcan. Which was a kick in the gut, as far as realizations went, but he'd at least admit it to himself.

McCoy pushed back from his desk. There was no chance of him getting any work done, not with those damn flowers staring at him. There was a certain comfort to pacing; at least he was moving, working off a little excess, restless energy.

Spock'd said he was going to make amends. McCoy hadn't expected anything quite so literal but that's what he got for expecting anything in the first place. Spock wasn't human – and for all McCoy pushed at him to feel a little bit, McCoy didn't expect him to be. So, different cultural background, different approach to reparations.

Except Vulcans didn't _make_ reparations. Because they didn't cause offense. Goddamn peaceniks. Right. So, Spock was mining the customary apologetic gestures of Earth's human cultures and...

And McCoy wasn't giving the Vulcan any recognizable signal of forgiveness, maybe. He'd told Spock that there was no offense, and he still didn't think there was, but what if that was making Spock think he still had to earn McCoy's forgiveness?

It was making McCoy's head hurt. This was why he'd stuck to masturbation and shore leave flings since the divorce. Easier on everyone. But no, he had to go getting involved with a damn computer (Spock wasn't a computer) who tied him up in knots.

Oh, there was an idea. He could tie Spock up.

McCoy shook his head and rolled his eyes at himself. He was getting to be as bad as Jim.

But still, there was probably something to the idea that they were just speaking different languages. He could go to Spock, make the man understand... McCoy's pride pricked at him: he was always going to Spock. Would it kill his... lover to come to him sometimes too?

Lover. There was a word.

Something shivered through the bond at that – either Spock was peeking in and eavesdropping or he'd picked up on the surge of arousal McCoy had felt at that bondage idea. Either way, it was more than he'd felt all week, Spock keeping a close lockdown on his emotions.

Aw, hell. McCoy grabbed the vase of flowers and stalked out of his room. He was focused enough to ignore the startled looks of the other crewmen who scurried to get out of his way.

If they were going to make this a habit, McCoy was going to demand quarters that were closer.

"Aw, Bones, you shouldn't have." Jim's cheerful greeting stopped McCoy in his tracks – but only for a few seconds. McCoy could glare and walk at the same time. Unlike some captains he knew.

"Shut up, Jim."

Jim leaned against the doorframe of the captain's quarters, artfully disheveled. "Is this going to be loud? If it's going to be loud, I can bring my date back here in about twenty minutes."

McCoy's hand had been raised to punch in the code to Spock's door but he paused. "What the hell are you talking about?"

He'd watched Jim practice that smirk in the mirror while they'd been at the Academy. "I'm just saying, she thinks it's sexy when we can hear you. The walls are thin. It's a spaceship, not a pleasure hotel, Bones."

All of those Command-track phys ed courses (not to mention hand-to-hand combat on hostile planets) had honed Jim's reflexes; he stepped back into his room and closed the door before McCoy could dump the flowers on his head.

Oh, holy shit, Jim had heard them. And his girlfriend (probably Gaila – Gaila was the only one Jim had ever brought home more than once as far as McCoy knew) McCoy closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the bulkhead. The day just got better and better.

"Leonard?" Spock's voice was, to McCoy's ears at least, audibly concerned. And surprised.

McCoy was, suddenly and completely, exhausted. He didn't move, spoke against the cool metal of the wall. "I brought your damn flowers back." That had not been what he meant to say. "Figured they'd look better in your room." Better but not quite what he wanted Spock to understand. "You still trying to make amends?"

Spock's eyes widened and he scanned the corridor for observers. McCoy snorted to himself before he found the energy to straighten back up and head to Spock's door. "Come on, then, we'll take it somewhere more private."

Though Jim's little revelation suggested it wasn't as private as McCoy had been thinking. Oh, gods, he'd deal with that later. With a hypo. Or six. Maybe twelve.

McCoy set the vase on the table Spock kept meticulously tidy and kept moving further into Spock's quarters until he could flop down onto the bed. He'd let Spock avoid him, had been too chicken shit to address it head on, but now he was too tired for games. "Come here, baby."

He held his breath until he felt Spock's weight settle on the other side of the mattress. Too far away. "I said here, not over there." Spock was even slower to move this time, and the Vulcan remained just out of reach.

"You do not wear adornment or ornamentation; jewelry did not seem appropriate." Spock's voice was soft. "Did the flowers displease you?"

The flowers. And the breakfasts delivered by very confused ensigns. And the impeccably clean quarters McCoy had come home to when he finished his first shift after the party. And the recording of Vulcan lyre music he'd admired after hearing it in Spock's rooms. And a dozen other small gestures of apology that spoke to Spock's conviction he had to earn McCoy's forgiveness.

He'd had it all along. That's what McCoy couldn't make him understand. Spock didn't need to _do_ anything except maybe explain what was going on in his inscrutable head before it turned into a scene.

"They didn't displease me, darlin'. Can't say that anyone's ever brought me flowers before." McCoy kept himself still, exhaled softly when Spock eased a little bit closer, enough that their thighs were pressed together, side by side.

"And yet they do not appear to have served their intended purpose." Now that they were touching, Spock's tension radiated out from his body, dense muscle tissue bunched up when it was meant to be stretched out.

Spock had his own issues. Hell, the way he'd lost his mother was enough to give anyone a complex but he'd grown up caught between Vulcan and Earth like some kind of – well, Sarek and Amanda, bless her, had done their best to protect him from most of that but McCoy had read the medical case studies. You didn't just devise an interstellar cross-species hybridization without publishing that shit, even at the Vulcan Science Academy. Spock had grown up pulled between two cultures and their traditions.

Winging it was more Jim's style. But maybe some of that had rubbed off on McCoy, at least when it was important enough. He sat up, looked Spock full in the face for the first time since coming to his quarters – probably for the first time since they'd gotten back to the ship, honestly. "I was aggravated at the time, baby. Once I understood, I was fine. But you've been avoiding me, trying to get out of talking to me."

The back of McCoy's head itched with Spock's discomfort. So, McCoy figured, he was right about something at least.

"It is customary in human relationships to make amends when offense is given. I thought to –" Spock actually stopped speaking at the look McCoy gave him, which would feel like a victory at any other time but now just made McCoy feel even worse for not making Spock work through this with him earlier.

"Might surprise you to know this, but I'm well aware you aren't a human. And those human customs were never my favorite anyway." McCoy rolled to his side, placed a hand at Spock's waist but then tucked it up under the science blue tunic Spock still wore so McCoy could feel the heat of the fine skin and the flutter of the alien heartbeat. "We need something that works a little better for us, baby. So you listen up and do what I say now, okay?"

Spock's nod was another indicator that McCoy's instinct, his spur-of-the-moment plan was the right one. Spock was so good at beating himself up, it didn’t matter if McCoy was mad at him or not. But the Vulcan needed something, some signal from McCoy that would take them both off of the rollercoaster.

McCoy could give that to his lover.

"It's been too damn long since you kissed me. Come over here, Spock." It was gratifying when Spock pressed closer, hot mouth near enough that McCoy could imagine the feel of it on his own. But Spock wasn’t _doing_ anything... _Leonard, you're a damn idiot._ Spock was literal and precise. So McCoy would have to be as well, at least for this. "That's good, baby. Now be sweet and kiss me."

The eagerness with which Spock followed the command was almost painful – might have been even moreso had McCoy not been so thoroughly enjoying the soft pressure of Spock's lips parting against his own, the vivid warm wetness of Spock's tongue tracing at the shape of McCoy's bottom lip to ask permission for more. McCoy doubted he had it in him to say no – he deepened the kiss until their tongues tangled, chased each other from mouth to mouth to thoroughly learn texture and teeth again.

When they parted, McCoy was panting and Spock was poised with large eyes and relaxed mouth. He'd seen Spock look like that before, usually after they'd fucked themselves senseless across the bed. McCoy had been happy to give over to Spock, had counted himself lucky, but he'd been a fool. He should have realized there was more to Spock than that.

Well, time to make up for it. “That was good, darlin’. Now stand up and take off your clothes for me.”

Spock moved with his usual grace to comply. He removed his outer tunic and folded it, paused and looked to McCoy for instruction. McCoy jerked his chin to the laundry chute – Spock wouldn’t need to get dressed again tonight. The Vulcan complied, then stripped off his black undershirt. Spock was fastidious: he folded the undershirt as he had the overshirt before placing it in the chute as well.

His lover was lean for a Vulcan – that was part of his human heritage. Sarek was a big man, solid, imposing. Intimidating as hell, if McCoy was honest, especially now that McCoy was carrying on with his son. But Spock was young still, for a Vulcan. He might yet fill out, add the bulk of muscle to the width of his shoulders. McCoy would like that – and he liked Spock just as he was now. _Win-win situation, Leonard._ Though it was assuming an awful lot to even imagine Spock that many years in the future.

Dark, crisp hair shaded Spock’s chest and arms, his belly and, McCoy knew, lower. It had surprised McCoy, the first time Spock had taken his shirt off for a medical exam. But it was just another thing to love about Spock’s body now – the contrast of it with the pale, green-tinged skin, the way it rubbed against his own skin, heightening the sensation.

Long fingers worked the fastenings of Spock’s pants and McCoy shifted on the bed as he watched. It was no striptease, nothing meant to entertain on so base a level. But Spock’s efficient movements were so utterly _him_ , McCoy figured there was no way it couldn’t be arousing. While Spock folded his uniform pants, McCoy stripped off his own shirts (and threw them on the floor in the corner) before moving on to tend to his boots. Spock was barefoot as he so often was in quarters. He had elegant feet, high arches and long toes.

Spock was naked before McCoy had finished wadding up his socks and tossing them into the corner with his shirt. That was okay, though. He could work with that.

“Just stand there for a minute, darlin’.” He’d worry about Spock’s lack of verbal response if the bond weren’t clearly transmitting now: eagerness, sincerity, hope that McCoy would forgive Spock. “I want to look at you.”

They’d work on it, but now wasn’t the time.

There was no way to actually look his fill – he didn’t think he’d ever get tired of the sight – but McCoy damn sure tried. Spock’s skin had finer pores than humans, made it especially smooth to the touch. And his angles all stood out, shaded darker green in some spots (his navel was one of McCoy’s favorite spots), hip bones apparent and inviting.

And his cock. McCoy was a plain man, after all, nothing more, really, than an old country doctor. He liked Spock’s cock, peeking out from the sheath hidden between the Vulcan’s legs. When Spock was fully erect, he looked little different from a human male in that department, especially if you didn’t get real up close and personal. But McCoy liked these moments, when Spock finally let his body respond, as though he were shy with his own responses

“There you go. Let it come on out. And come here.” McCoy’s voice was a harsh whisper. He cleared his throat, coughed, cleared his throat again. “Take these pants off of me.”

Spock’s erection slipped a little further out and he crossed back to McCoy’s side of the bed. McCoy watched while Spock dealt with the button and zip and then raised his hips up enough for Spock to pull the fabric down to his thighs. One finger returned to trace the waistband of McCoy’s regulation underwear.

“Shall I remove these as well, Leonard?” Spock’s voice was soft but his eyes were hot and his finger skated closer to McCoy’s own cotton-covered erection.

“Yeah, do that” Spock’s fingers curled into the elastic, brushed against the sensitive skin of McCoy’s abdomen. He raised up again, and this time Spock pulled both his briefs and his uniform pants all the way off. “Good. Now get back on the bed with me.”

He could get used to this, Spock obeying his instructions with the barest uptilt of his curving lips. McCoy spread his legs and patted the still-made bed covers between them. “I want you right here.” It wouldn’t do to forget what he was trying to accomplish, wouldn’t be right to get caught up in the moment and forget what Spock needed. McCoy patted the bed again and promised himself: this was for Spock. Mostly.

Spock complied. “Suck my cock, baby.” McCoy’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat again against the knot that had sprung up in it. Then he had no more thought for it; Spock obeyed – and kept obeying.

Every order, every precise instruction – _suck harder, let me feel your teeth, don’t use your hands_ – was met with prompt attention and the occasional groaned agreement. Spock made delicious noises when he let himself go. Every sound ratcheted McCoy’s enjoyment and arousal higher. He tortured himself as well as Spock with the pace – gentle sucking when they both would have preferred the hard suction that led to orgasm, only the wetness of Spock’s tongue licking over his testicles when the warmth of Spock’s palms would have sent McCoy thrusting deeper down Spock’s throat – until Spock was grinding against the mattress and McCoy was felt certain he was going to leave bruises from gripping Spock’s shoulder so tight.

And then the tenor of his noises changed, became a growl at the back of Spock’s throat, and McCoy grinned – he’d been waiting for this. Spock got greedy when he wanted to come, when he was demanding McCoy’s pleasure to set off his own. “Hold on, now, Spock.” It took most of his will power to stay still when Spock pulled his mouth off of McCoy’s aching cock but he managed it, even with Spock’s hot eyes all dark and demanding and questioning. “Lay back, darlin’.”

Spock’s eyebrows creased together but he moved at McCoy’s hand, pressing against the center of his chest. Spock watched as McCoy clambered up to straddle Spock’s thighs.

McCoy had learned to ride bareback, horseflesh between his thighs flexing and shifting so that he had to flex and shift in response. He’d fallen off the first few times, his seat too loose and his responses too slow. Without a saddle, with no girth strap cinched tight, he actually had to pay attention to what the horse was doing, where the muscles were bunching, what it felt like before a burst of power manifested in a flat-out gallop across a field.

The way Spock shifted beneath him, so much strength held back with so much self-control, reminded McCoy of those long, hot afternoons. He shifted a little, thighs tense and responsive so he could move in counterpoint if Spock gave up his control, if Spock let himself go for even a second.

“That’s good, Spock, real good. I almost hate to punish you.” There it was, the curl and spring of Spock’s muscles as he sat up under McCoy. But McCoy’s muscles remembered, rode the movement and left his palms pressing flat against Spock’s shoulders.

The bond was a confused babble – but for every bit of insistence that McCoy explain, there was an equal amount of arousal and of relief.

It was the relief that got to McCoy more than anything else – it was almost visceral and it wasn’t even his emotion, his feeling. Spock didn’t know what to do so McCoy would tell him and that was something. Something safe.

But Spock still wasn’t talking and McCoy wasn’t willing, even with the bond broadcasting an all system’s go message loud and clear, to progress any further without some direct feedback. He leaned down, slow and careful, the same way he used to drape himself against the neck of his horse, until his arms were languid and heavy against Spock’s sides, and his legs were relaxed with his feet tucked up against Spock’s long calves.

“I kept saying you didn’t have anything to be sorry about, Spock – but seems you don’t believe that.” McCoy eased his words with a kiss to the tip of one of Spock’s ears. “Don’t know what’s going on, in that head of yours, but I reckon I can make it so you know you’re forgiven.” The delicate point was a distraction – McCoy wanted to suck at it and worry it with his teeth – Spock liked that, McCoy had repeated experiential evidence to prove it – but instead he placed another kiss there and lifted his head enough to meet Spock’s dark gaze. “What do you say to that, baby?”

“Leonard…” Spock, who was so rarely uncertain, closed his mouth and then opened it again. “Proceed, please.” It was almost too quiet for the human to hear, and Spock’s ears flushed. The Vulcan looked away.

If Spock were human, McCoy would have read it as embarrassment. Hell, he might decide it was embarrassment anyway because Spock didn’t ever react that way.

“Everything we’ve done together, this is what makes you blush?” McCoy chuckled. But he also leaned down again to take Spock’s mouth in a very human kiss.

If there was something tender growing in the back of his mind, he let it alone for the moment, even as it made him want to smile like a fool.

McCoy righted himself, regained his seat, back in control. One hand rested, almost soothing, against Spock’s belly. With the other, McCoy traced a slow, teasing path down his own chest, from neck to navel and then back up to circle each nipple with the edge of his thumbnail. “You just sit back and watch me for a little while.”

Spock’s nod was, McCoy judged, somewhat distracted. Still, he didn’t blame the man – Spock hadn’t taken his attention off of the lazy movements of McCoy’s hand over his own skin. The hand took a detour and traced over McCoy’s collarbones before exploring the subtle curve that was the bottom of McCoy’s ribcage. The hand continued to travel – McCoy wasn’t above teasing himself, wasn’t opposed to going slow just for the sake of going slow when the reward was so good at the end.

Still, there was a time for everything, McCoy mused, and it was past time he got down to touching his cock. He closed his surgeon’s fingers around the erection that hadn’t flagged during their little bit of conversation and gave himself a friendly, loose-gripped stroke.

“You like watching me? Kind of surprised how hot it is, doing this so you can see.” Understatement – masturbating while Spock was watching, just the thought of it had been enough to keep him hard. And it pushed him along faster than he’d planned to go, Spock’s eyes hot and attentive. “Wish you were doing this yourself? You answer me when I ask you a question now.”

McCoy ran his thumb over the head of his cock, caught the bead of moisture that escaped while he waited for Spock’s response, which came in the form of a frantic nod. “It is a task which I enjoy a great deal. I would perform it for you.” His eyes never left McCoy’s hand where it was moving.

Oh, those damn eyes. They were going to undo him. McCoy added a little thrust of his hips, just enough to force his cock through his fist. “Next time you think about that, then, before you get all jealous – think about how I let you touch me. I don’t let anybody else do that, baby.” He rose up a little more, rocked forcefully into his own touch. “You remember that, and next time I’ll let you touch me any damn way you want, instead of doing it myself.”

The understanding flashed across Spock’s face. “How long will I be denied your flesh, Leonard?”

McCoy had hated his name in the past. Too old-fashioned, too often said with a sneer. But on Spock’s lips, it took on a precision that made it sound new and fresh and… hell, it sounded special. He had to bite back a laugh – would have broken the damn mood – at his own thoughts. He sounded like a damn teenaged girl.

The time, though – McCoy hadn’t thought that far ahead. His motions slowed as he considered. “First offense, sugar. So we’ll go easy. Two full shift rotations - then you can fuck me through the mattress if that’s what you want.”

Not quite two days and McCoy didn’t want to go any longer than that either, no matter how much fun it was turning out to be, putting on a show to tease his usually stoic lover. But Spock needed it and the heat of his eyes, watching McCoy’s face now, made it clear that when his punishment was over Spock would make McCoy’s own wait worthwhile.

The promise was enough to bring him right back to the moment, out of his own head and back into his skin: tense thighs, clenching toes, the spiraling tightness of his balls heralding orgasm. “Oh, fuck, that’s good.” McCoy curled forward over Spock’s torso, hand moving with more purpose now, intent on bringing himself off.

He was quiet, nostrils flaring as the first jet of come marked the skin of Spock’s chest, white on pale.

 _Leonard._ It was the barest whisper in his mind, unmistakeably Spock’s voice, bypassing his ears to resonate behind his sinuses. Hell, Spock was in his head. Oh, hell. McCoy’s orgasm continued, shattered him until he would only know which way was up if Spock was there.

McCoy’s awareness wavered – when he was able to focus, he found himself slumped and sprawled across Spock’s body. They were chest to chest, his come slick between them. Spock felt tight and the flickers of movement, stifled before Spock actually shifted, reflected the Vulcan’s frustrated arousal.

“Two shift rotations.” Leonard muttered it into Spock’s neck. “Then, whatever you want."


End file.
